


Devils and Heathens Alike

by purpjools



Series: Human Hazbin Roommates AU [1]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Fingering, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Creampie, Gratuitous Smut, Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Human Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Human Husk (Hazbin Hotel), Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mild Kink, Mirror Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Unsafe Sex, Unspecified Lockdown Scenario
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:35:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23495410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpjools/pseuds/purpjools
Summary: A lockdown is in place, and Angel's stuck inside with his roommates that he's hardly ever interacted with. He's half-convinced it won't be all that terrible, as they seem relatively harmless, especially the radio host. What could possibly happen?(In which Alastor is equal parts predatory, bored, and shameless.)
Relationships: Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)
Series: Human Hazbin Roommates AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1699558
Comments: 39
Kudos: 413





	Devils and Heathens Alike

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all you cool cats and kittens. May I offer you some porn in these trying times?
> 
> This is an informal blanket apology for the slowest of burns in my other fic. This is dedicated to all you readers just wanting some low down, drag out filth.
> 
> I apologize if anyone feels that the (unspecified) lockdown scenario is bothersome. I do have to reiterate that it has nothing to do with the current situation, as nothing else is mentioned or detailed besides the fact that there is a lockdown in place. If that still irks you, feel free to head back. We’re all in this together.
> 
> I would apologize for the porn as well, but that would be disingenuous.

He’s going to go insane.

Angel sighs, diverting his gaze from the two men sitting across from him.

Fuck this lockdown.

It’s not that he hates his roommates, rather, he considers them a great deal more responsible than the ones he had the displeasure of living with before. Both Alastor and Husk pay their bills on time, keep relatively peaceful hours, and manage (as one could with three single men crammed into a small house) to keep the place free of clutter and mostly clean. At least, Alastor tries to. Husk and Angel have a propensity for mess, but they remedy that by paying the lion’s share of the bills. Alastor agreed without fuss when the other two proposed the revised payment plan early on in their living arrangement. He merely smiled and stated that cleaning relaxed him, kept his hands busy.

Idle hands, he said, wiggling his fingers, smile turning sly. Angel reddened and looked away. Husk groaned.

All in all, it was a relatively smooth learning curve. They make it work, somehow.

This, however, is wholly unprecedented.

This is the first time since their introductory communal dinner that they have coalesced in the same room at the same time. For what may be an indeterminate amount of time.

They hardly saw each other prior to this. He could count on one hand the number of things he’s said to Alastor or Husk in passing, all of them concluding that communication via texts and email work best for their situation. Angel and Husk work night shifts, the former at the strip club in the city, and the latter at the neighborhood watering hole. Alastor, to Angel’s knowledge, keeps fairly normal working hours: a couple of times a week, he performs on his radio show for his triweekly morning broadcast, and then again for his biweekly nighttime show. Angel sometimes catches the morning show driving home, the sonorous voice a balm after a night of bruised knees.

He shamefully reacts to that same voice, live from their dining room.

“Well. This is…different.” Alastor says, stating the obvious. His long fingers drum absently on the table. Angel unwillingly follows the rhythmic tapping.

“No shit, Sherlock.”

Husk looks about ready to murder someone. His eyes are glassed over with a stir-crazy sheen usually found on inmates. “Fuck this lockdown and the horse that it rode in on.” His hands shake for an altogether different reason, which he attempts to remedy by clutching at an empty glass. Alastor spares a disparaging glance at him.

Sometimes Angel forgets that Husk and Alastor share a past. From what Cherri’d told him, Husk once dated a mutual friend of Alastor’s, who then suggested they all move in together to save money; the extra cash better utilized for paying off student loans and buying beer. They lived in the house for a time, until Husk’s vices got the better of him, prompting his fiancée to break off their engagement and move out. This left both men scrambling for a replacement. Eventually, they settled on renting out the room to transients until Angel came along, whereupon they drew up a revised agreement. To this day, the girl still visits Alastor, which rubs Husk the wrong way, and Angel as well, were he to be completely honest. He’s not entirely sure why.

At the moment, Angel attempts to placate his roommate, a wise course of action since the frothing and shaking hadn’t yet abated. “I’m sure it’ll blow over soon. The last time was what? Three days?”

“Three fucking days too many,” he bitches. “How much booze did ya say we had left?”

Alastor flinches and Angel’s heart sinks.

They always count on Alastor to have a running tally of each item in their pantry, bathroom, closet, and what-have-you. For all his extroverted mien, Alastor relishes private, pensive tasks like bookkeeping, filing taxes, and keeping stock of inventory. Privately, Angel thinks of him as borderline insane. He personally doesn’t bother with mundane tasks the majority of the time. He has a regular that helps him out with taxes, even though like clockwork, Molly blows up his phone every year to remind him to file them.

He abruptly snaps back into the conversation as Alastor prefaces his statement with, “Don’t panic.”

Husk, to nobody’s surprise, is viciously noncompliant.

“Al, I swear to fucking god, there had better be enough in this goddamn house for the rest of this fucking lockdown! I thought you fucking stocked up yesterday at the store?”

“On _essentials_ , yes.”

Angel debates whether it would be prudent to interject, or if he should just turn tail and bunk in his room until after Husk commits first degree. He hates being called as a witness. It really fucks with his sleep cycle.

In the end, Angel decides to intervene. He would miss the eye candy, after all.

Before Husk can fire back with his “booze _is_ fucking essential” tirade, Angel fishes in his pockets for his keys. He slides them across the table.

“Take my car. I think the one across SafeFood is still open.”

Alastor shoots him an amused look, which Angel pointedly ignores. Husk swipes the keys from the table, all traces of anger and shaking suddenly vanished. He’s halfway out of the kitchen before Angel hears him call out, “Thanks, Twinkie! Owe you one!”

To his chagrin, Alastor appears no less amused. The front door slams, and Angel is suddenly, self-consciously aware of present company.

Dimly, he registers the roar of the motor, loud and unbearable in the encroaching silence. Alastor’s eyes roam over him, as if cataloguing and fitting together pieces of a very fascinating puzzle. He uncrosses his arms, leans forward onto the table, and props a fist under his chin to complete the assessment. Angel veers backward in surprise, back colliding with his chair. Alastor peers through half-lidded eyes, laughter dancing behind his glasses. A canine peeks out from the inside of his smirk. Angel subtlety pushes the heel of his hand onto the front of his shorts.

“Twinkie? Pray, is that a new stage name?”

The familiar voice slithers out, low and resonant. It ripples in a series of frissons down his spine, and he shivers. Alastor’s smirk widens, and Angel blushes and scowls.

“You wish. If he calls me ‘Twinkie, Twinkie, Little Star’ again, I’ll tase his ass.”

Alastor laughs, loud and theatrical. “How fitting,” he says, voice dropping lower. “It suits you.”

Angel quirks a brow. “The name or the taser?”

“Both.” He drops his hand from his chin, folding both arms across the table. “But the weapon is a touch unexpected.”

“Honey, I’ve been dancin’ longer than you’ve been broadcastin’. I look after myself. I’m a big boy.”

Angel winks at his roommate, consummate flirting second nature to him. He expects Alastor to back off, like he did a year ago when Angel first moved in. He remembers taking a long look at the radio host, and offered to get down on his knees right then and there. Alastor rebuffed him, rattling off a multitude of excuses, none of which, interestingly enough, were attributed to his sexuality or a lack of attraction towards him. Husk later explained that Alastor was a weird guy, but his ex-fiancée swore up and down that he had, in fact, entertained sexual partners from time to time; he just didn’t like bringing them home.

‘Guy doesn’t like to shit where he eats,’ Husk said, and that was that.

But that was then, and this is now. Lockdowns are hell for extroverts, which means that Alastor must be losing his mind.

It certainly seems so when his eyes darken, tongue darting out to trail his sharp, upper canine. Angel shifts, adjusting for the sudden tightness in his shorts. Alastor’s gaze flicks downward at the jerky movement, and back up to Angel’s flushed face.

“Are you, now?” he purrs.

He shivers while Alastor eyes the junction of his neck.

He looks ravenous.

Angel stutters, off balance, for once. He berates himself, halfheartedly. There’s a pull towards the other man that he could never readily explain. He chews his lip, wary of what Husk stated the last time.

‘Alastor’s a changeable bastard,’ he warned. ‘You’d do best to steer clear of him.’

Angel was never very good at heeding warnings.

Alastor parts his lips, inviting. His teeth remind Angel of fangs, dangerous and beguiling. He recalls, with sudden clarity, of the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood. Seconds tick by. The air is suffused with tensile electricity. Angel’s heart pounds, his nerves set afire. His conscience, or whatever’s left of it, begs him to reconsider and leave.

There’s a line he shouldn’t cross, he thinks distantly, amidst the ringing of alarm bells. He’s your fucking roommate, something else screams.

For all Angel knew, he could be a serial killer.

_But my, what sharp teeth he has._

“Why…what’re ya playin’ at?” He barely stops himself from stammering, a victory, albeit a small one.

“Nothing, my dear fellow. I don’t believe I’m ‘playing’ at anything.”

“Then why. Why…” His voice drops to a husky whine, and he instantly hates himself for it. “Why all of this?”

What he wants to ask is, why is he acting like this, when did the game change, was he always this cruel, but he can’t quite form the words as the blood rushes from his brain downwards.

Alastor chuckles, this time authentic and mocking. “Why does anyone do anything? Sheer, absolute boredom, my darling!”

Angel’s dick jumps traitorously at the familiar timbre, recalling all at once, the dim luminescence of early morning, windows rolled down to welcome the coolness, and the bare glimmer of color peaking over the mountains. He remembers locking his door, taking himself in hand, and spending to the ghost of Alastor’s mellifluous lilt.

“More’s the pity,” Alastor laments. “And here I thought you could help alleviate this boredom.”

He stands and stretches with practiced grace, shirt riding up to reveal a bare strip of abdomen. Angel’s mind focuses, then blurs.

There’s a challenge in there, somewhere, and god help him, he is fool enough to wander into the trap.

Angel stands up, irritation and desire warring under his skin. He stalks toward Alastor, who’s eyeing him with mild amusement. He stops, almost toe to toe with the other man. He’s close enough to smell Alastor: spicy, woody with hints of the dryer sheets they all share. It’s heady and intoxicating. The air is charged, a thousand live currents waiting for contact. Alastor wears the same cool expression on his face, but up close, it’s calculating. Another wave of irritation hits him as he wonders if the prick ever stops smiling. It’s a moot point, anyhow. Hell would freeze over before he’d ever tire of those dimples. He takes a deep breath, praying for strength, or weakness. He’s not picky.

He rushes forward.

Alastor lets himself tangle with Angel’s moving legs as he maneuvers them towards the couch. He’s pushed backwards into the cushions. Angel hovers over him, inserting a knee between his open thighs. Alastor reaches out a hand to cup his cheek, which Angel allows for a brief moment, nuzzling in the warmth, before snatching his wrist and guiding it back to his body. He grins, all cheek and false bravado.

“No hands on the dancers, sweets. We’ll let ya know if it’s okay to touch.”

Angel straddles him, balancing his weight by settling his knees on the outside of Alastor’s thighs. His knees sink into the couch, anchoring him. An anchor of an entirely different nature settles on his hips.

“Wouldn’t want you to overbalance,” Alastor says, sickly saccharine. He splays his hands over Angel’s curves, fingers rucking up the thin shirt. His touch _burns_.

It’s fine, he thinks. Just another private show with a customer. Nothing to be afraid of.

“I’ll allow it,” Angel hears himself say.

Alastor smiles wider, leaning back into the couch, and pulling Angel with him.

“Yes. You will.”

He moves with Alastor, careful not to pin his entire body weight on him. His palms, slightly sweaty, grip Alastor’s broad shoulders for balance. His head hangs near Alastor’s neck. Soft hair tickles his cheek.

In a mad rush, Angel’s mind catches up with him. His heart drums in an erratic rhythm. His face flushes further, and a sinking, spiralling sensation swirls in his stomach.

What the fuck am I doing, he thinks, half hysterically.

He pauses long enough that Alastor eases up on the punishing grip choking his hips.

Angel, refusing to make eye contact, stammers, “It’s kinda weird without music.”

“Frivolous. We’ll just have to make do,” Alastor says, running a soothing hand up his flank, under his shirt. Angel arches at the incomparable sensation of skin on skin. The callouses under his palm are driving him crazy. Without warning, Alastor brandishes his nails and scrapes on the downturn. Angel moans.

“I’m sure I can wring out all the required sounds from you,” he purrs. “Unless…”

He trails off, and Angel pulls back, cowardice be damned. He’s greeted by Alastor’s cheshire grin.

“Second thoughts, dear?”

There’s another provocation in Alastor’s mocking smile. Angel bristles, rising to the occasion, buttons not just pushed, but relentlessly pounded. His eyes flash as he pushes his hips up and shimmies down, clothed erection sliding against Alastor’s. His roommate bucks up involuntarily, seemingly offset by Angel’s mercurial mood change. He recovers quickly, and Angel is met with sinister eyes, and an unreasonably pleased smile.

He retaliates by gyrating his hips in a sideways figure eight motion. His body, moving with muscle memory, undulates and rolls under Alastor’s heated gaze. He lowers his hips, dick brushing tantalizingly over his partner’s thigh, as he shoves his tits into the solid brick of chest.

There it is: the tell-tale hitch in the inhale, the strain at the front of his trousers. Angel feels alive with triumph.

Alastor, for his part, allows him temporary claim to his body, but Angel suspects that it’s all part of an act. His eyes, too quick; his mouth, too sly. He drops his hand from Angel’s hip to adjust himself through his slacks, and Angel responds by palming himself over his own shorts. Alastor’s already half hard, and judging by the outline, Angel’s already impressed.

He lowers himself once more, before he hears the blinds clack at the window. It’s the wind, a part of him knows, but paranoia seeps in anyway.

His eyes dart to the door.

“What if Husk comes back?” he pants, grinding down with circling hips. Alastor, hands strangling his waist, bares his teeth. He swiftly leans forward and grabs the back of Angel’s neck with newfound leverage, pulling him back towards him. Angel yelps, off balance. His chin nestles in the crook of Alastor’s neck.

“And what if he does, darling?” Alastor’s lips find purchase near the sensitive spot in his neck.

“Will you stop?”

He punctuates his sentence by thrusting up just as Angel grinds down. Stars explode behind Angel’s freshly shut lids. He bites back a whine.

Of course not, his mind unhelpfully supplies.

_How could he?_

To Angel’s utter surprise, Alastor suddenly shoves him away with practiced ease. Angel’s eyes slam open, moments before fixing him with a glare.

“In all fairness, you have a point. Knowing the fiend, he’d either find a way to blackmail the both of us, or try to drunkenly weasel in. I’m not overly fond of either situation,” Alastor sighs. “Perhaps it’s best if we continue these illicit activities elsewhere. That is, if you’re still game.”

Angel knows there’s time. Husk went to the liquor store, a good few miles away. He was probably grabbing a bunch of hards, only to chug half a bottle right there in the parking lot. He’ll wait an hour or so until the police clear out, and for his BAC to drop a little since he was driving, before finally making his way home. It’s what usually happens, he knows, but the sensible portion of Angel refuses to give in that easily.

Angel opens his mouth to answer, intending to play hard to get, but Alastor interjects.

“I’d also like for you to disclose,” he clears his throat, “your current status.”

Angel’s mind blanks for a second, unused to this about-face in mood. When he regains his senses, it returns with a vengeance.

“I’m clean,” he spits, humiliated at the assumption. During lulls at the club, he shoots amateur porn and webcam shows, but the company requires him to get checked regularly. He doesn’t bother to ask how Alastor knows. “I have my updated results if ya fuckin’ wanna see.”

Alastor shushes him once, then quickly switches tactics at Angel’s reaction. He attempts to placate him with languorous strokes on his thighs, hips, ass.

“Only confirming, dear heart. I have mine in my phone from last week’s appointment. You’re more than welcome to take a gander.”

Angel starts at the transparency. He hesitates. Alastor notices.

“Don’t tell me you trust me, already,” he admonishes. “Have your senses taken leave so soon?”

Angel snaps, “Of course I don’t trust you, asshole.” It’s without heat.

Because a part of him does trust Alastor: the foolish, soft part that unfortunately crowds up most of his being, if he were honest. He trusts his roommate to restock the shared inventory, he trusts him to leave the floor and sinks spotless, and trusts him to fix the various maintenance issues plaguing the house.

And the sensible part of him trusts Alastor to have his own interests at heart, if his arrogance today demonstrated anything.

“You’d be a fool to, but surely not the first,” he says, voice unreadable.

Angel ignores the coil of jealously springing open in his chest, his mind now stubbornly made up.

“Bed?” he suggests, with little trepidation. He bites his lip, purposely, for good measure. “Yours or mine?”

Alastor seems to have decided as well, if his expression is anything to go by.

“Yours.”

Angel preens at the speedy response. “Got a dead body or somethin’ that I don’t know about?” he teases. Alastor takes advantage of his mood and pulls him back down by his nape.

His hot breath tickles Angel’s neck.

“Maybe,” he rumbles, nosing the space between his earlobe and shoulder slope.

It takes all of Angel’s willpower to break away.

With great reluctance, he peels himself off of Alastor, ignoring the pins and needles embedded in his legs. Alastor follows suit, standing, both taking a moment to adjust themselves. Angel guides him steadily, hands clasped together, feigned confidence contrasting with the dull thudding in his ears.

The walk upstairs is a torture unto itself. All Angel wants to do is to shamelessly writhe up against that body, squirming enough until he gets forcibly pinned down. Judging by the way Alastor clings to his hand, he figures it’s more of the same for him.

Once they reach Angel’s room, his nerves rebel. Gut instinct pleads with him to leave everything confined to the living room, to chalk it up to a brief lapse in judgement. Angel briefly ruminates. It’s overturned, of course, by the animalistic urges driving him. With another deep breath, he opens the door.

* * *

Everything is as it should be from when he last left.

His day clothes are haphazardly strewn across the room. His cheap work bag, dumped unceremoniously on the floor, spills out its contents. Clear platform heels are stacked near his desk. The mat he uses for floorwork lay folded in a corner, its garish pinks and purples the biggest eyesore in the space.

His bed is, by contrast, pristine, and he guides Alastor towards it.

Alastor glances around, hands clasped behind his back.

“Hm,” he says, seemingly unimpressed.

He’s deceptively unruffled for someone who was pinned to the couch by Angel’s dick mere moments ago.

“Hm,” he repeats again, before he moves and crowds Angel up against the wall.

Angel gasps on instinct. Alastor takes that as invitation and devours him.

He moans as Alastor’s large hands manipulate his face, cupping the sides. He kisses Angel soft and slow at one moment, nips his bottom lip in another, and lightly sucks his tongue the next. He breaks away to kiss down his neck. Without warning, Alastor parts his lips and sucks hard. Angel swoons at the assault on his sensitive skin. Sharp teeth graze the abused flesh. Alastor shudders suddenly, and pulls away, but not before apologetically laving his tongue over the area.

It’s fucking incredible. Angel, for the life of him, cannot wrap his head around the fact that it’s his normally reserved and well-behaved roommate who’s eliciting this response.

Desire curls in his belly, slow and spreading. Alastor nips again at his neck, leading him to the bed with his hips. The back of Angel’s legs collide with the mattress. Alastor breaks the kiss and pushes him down so that he’s perched on the edge. He deftly unbuttons his shirt, clever fingers weaving buttons through the holes, not once taking his hungry eyes off of Angel’s. His mouth is swollen, pink, and mocking. Angel shucks off his shirt, temporarily disappointed in the brief second his vision is obscured.

It’s maddening, how much he wants this.

Alastor’s trousers and boxer briefs follow suit, and he steps out of them towards Angel. He looks like everything his mind conjured during that shameful morning, and more. Much, _much_ more. Alastor arches a brow, cocksure. And damn if it isn’t the hottest thing Angel has ever seen.

“Clothes off, darling,” he coos, deceptively innocuous. “Hips up. Bed, next.”

He follows the orders as quickly as he can while unbelievably hard. He swings his legs over and gets on the bed, cockhead dotted with precum. Alastor regards him, coolly.

Fucking asshole, he thinks, but what comes out is:

“Please,” he begs. Alastor adjusts his glasses, naked greed shining in his eyes. He looms over the bed, looking for all the world like an apex predator. Angel, more guts than brains, bites his lip, beckoning.

“Don’t make me ask twice,” Angel sighs out, stupid with lust.

Alastor acquiesces. “No, I don’t think so,” he murmurs, climbing into bed. He tilts his head, then orders, “Hands and knees.”

Angel scrambles to obey, assuming the position. He balances on one arm to palm at the base of his cock, pushing once. His partner releases an appreciative hum. A hand runs along his flank, down to his hips, and lightly kneads his ass. All of a sudden, it abruptly leaves.

Only to connect soundly with his ass a moment later. He bucks at the harsh smack, nerves aflame. His cock pulses and a hot flood of shame rushes through him.

“What is this.” The growl is so unfamiliar to Angel, that he cranes his head over his shoulder as best as he can. Alastor is staring down at his ass, lip curling with disdain. _Oh._

“Tattoo,” he blurts out. “It’s an old tattoo, super old, from an ex-boyfriend years back. Don’t mean jack shit, now, I promise, I was gonna get it lasered soon as I got time off-”

“Angel.”

He stops instantly, erection slightly wilting at the abrupt turn of events. Fuck, he thinks. He should’ve made the appointment ages ago, but he kept forgetting due to the unfortunate placement. He curses his ex for good measure, especially if this is the thing that scares Alastor off. He’s stewing in self-pity when Alastor sighs.

“Darling. Where do you keep the lubricant? Protection?”

His heart leaps. “Right side. Top drawer.”

The slide of the drawer opening and the subsequent shuffling are music to his ears. He hears crinkling, then tearing. A popping noise completes the symphony. He spreads his legs in anticipation. Alastor hums.

“For future reference, perhaps rethink the tattoo removal. Maybe adjust it a tad. Get rid of the ‘V’ completely and leave the rest.”

Shivers trickle down Angel’s spine at the suggestion, and his knees go weak at the implication. He doesn’t trust himself to answer, else he’d sell his soul.

In any case, Alastor surprises him, yet again. He wonders vaguely if he should also keep a running total. A slippery hand wraps around his cock, squeezing once before pumping it. Angel rocks into the tight grip. Alastor works his shaft, twisting his wrist as he slides up and down.

“How prepared are you, my dear?”

Alastor palms his cockhead, thumbing the slit, and Angel cants forward, chasing the sensation.

“I…” He writhes, spreading his thighs wider. “I wear. A plug at work. Clean from last night, nghh.” Alastor presses kisses up his spine as his other hand fondles his balls, cupping and kneading.

He leans closer, and Angel feels a slick wetness drag across his thigh, eliciting a full blown shudder. He’s rutting on Angel’s body. Marking his territory.

“No customers for you last night, then,” he hisses, pleased. The hand that was fondling his sack inches closer to his entrance. Fingers gently press into his perineum before dropping away. His other hand follows.

Angel sobs.

“No one,” he whines at the loss. He pushes his hips back, shamelessly displaying himself. “Just you. Now.”

He hates how needy he’s being, but he adores Alastor’s reaction to it. He becomes more vicious. Hot breath plumes at the back of his thighs. Angel shudders as Alastor nips up his thighs. He feels the hot wet slide of Alastor’s tongue teasing his hole. He bites his lip in order to keep quiet, but it doesn’t exactly work. He exhales, a half moan, half sigh as Alastor laves his tongue over the puckered entrance. He drops to his elbows, spreading his legs even wider.

Alastor moans as he pushes his tongue inside Angel’s tight heat. Arousal stirs in Angel at the sound. His legs begin to shake as Alastor pushes his cheeks apart, forcing his tongue further inside. Angel feels filthy, spread wide and docile for this man’s amusement. It doesn’t stop him from shoving his hips back to be penetrated deeper.

Another vindictive, petty side wars against complete submission to Alastor. He viciously wants to be as much as a contrary brat as humanely possible just to see how Alastor reacts. Angel is used to commanding and directing attention; he’s the strip club’s darling, after all. Alastor, in one ludicrous lockdown, turns that all on its head. To retain some dignity, he tries his hardest to fight the siren call and squirms, petulant. Alastor seems to sense that. He withdraws his tongue, chuckling.

“Oh you stubborn little thing.” It sounds fond, but it’s laced with metal.

Angel _did_ enjoy a bit of punishment.

“We’ll just change tactics now, shall we?” The mattress lifts as Alastor moves off the bed.

Angel panics, but the low rumble of his voice reassures him.

“Eyes ahead, darling.”

Angel forces himself to look straight ahead. He’s rewarded by the sight of Alastor propping up his full length mirror against his desk. He openly gawks at his reflection: miles of pale, freckled skin, eyes clouded with lust, mouth swollen.

He looks _obscene_.

He can’t stop staring as Alastor returns and enters the frame. He does nothing for a while, content at running his eyes over Angel’s exposed form. After a beat, Angel finally gives in and wraps a hand around himself.

“Hand off.”

“Ha,” Angel gasps, hand flying from his dick. He whines, rutting into the sheets. Precum dribbles from the tip of his cock. Alastor sighs, then reaches around and fists Angel’s weeping erection. He smears the fluid with his thumb, sliding over the slit and gently pulling his foreskin back. Angel bites down a moan as he pumps up and down the shaft.

It’s too much, and Angel needs more. He _craves_ it.

Alastor exhales, cock pushing at Angel’s thighs.

“Oh, pet,” he murmurs. “Look at you.”

Alastor rakes nails down his back, and he arches like a bow. He bares his neck, and as consequence, a hand tangles in his hair, pushing forward, forcing him to face their reflections. The mirror reveals his face, pupils blown wide, mouth open in a gasp and shoulders shaking with exertion. The man next to him wears a predatory visage, eyes dark.

He’s reprehensible.

“No, no, no, dear,” he tuts. He leans over the expanse of Angel’s back, solid and hot and strong. Alastor kisses up his spine, before murmuring, “Eyes ahead, sweetheart. Give the audience what they paid for.”

Humiliation licks at his stomach, twining inextricably with lust.

“Yes, Al,” he automatically replies.

“Good boy.”

He releases his hold, withdrawing both hands at once. Angel groans at the loss, but perks up when he hears the cap of the lube popping open. He watches Alastor focus on his task in the reflection. When he returns behind Angel, his eyes flick to the mirror. He catches Angel staring, and his eyes flash and narrow.

_Shit._

He quickly whips his gaze forward, but the damage is done. The slide of the generously coated fingertip around his puckered entrance is teasing, until it’s not. He swears as it breaches him, shamefully easy due to the plugs he wears at work. Alastor adds a second finger, too quickly. Two fingers become three, and the pace becomes punishingly brutal. He flushes as Alastor wrings out the filthiest, wet noises from his hole. Angel cants his hips, dick slapping his thigh, and keens.

Alastor snarls, “Do I need to break you in,” and that, along with the fingers sloppily scissoring his hole, causes his brain to shatter. He rushes to bridge the dichotomy between the reserved radio host he first met with the hedonistic beast fucking into him with his fingers.

_My, what big claws you have._

Alastor crooks his fingers at a different angle on one of the thrusts, and Angel loudly whimpers.

“There,” Angel breathes, pleasure building. Alastor repeats the gesture, assaulting the bundle of nerves relentlessly until Angel is shaking, boneless.

“Al. Please. Inside.”

“Say that again.” Angel shivers at the dangerous tone.

He repeats the words. His eyes dart up to meet Alastor’s in the mirror. His handsome face is contorted with naked desire, and Angel feels a stab of pride for a fleeting moment. It’s replaced, however, as his partner hisses, “But do you deserve it?”

The question seems rhetorical, but Angel answers in the affirmative anyway. It comes out as a beg, and the ounce of pride he had left has burned to ash. But he’d be lying if he said the shame was entirely unwelcome.

“Lucky for you, I’m in a magnanimous mood today.”

Angel watches as Alastor fists his own cock, shamelessly locking eyes with Angel’s through the reflection. The smell of latex and lube hits his nostrils and his cock throbs, a perverse Pavlovian response. Alastor positions himself behind Angel, pinching roughly at his cheeks, scratching deeper still in that fucking tattoo. He uses one hand to spread Angel’s rim open.

Alastor guides his cock, and Angel feels it pushing insistently against his rim. Alastor grunts as his head breaches the tight opening, Angel’s hole choking his cock. It stretches with glorious burn. The slow drag of Alastor’s cock inside him flays every nerve raw, and he howls. He parts his thighs even wider to accommodate the considerable girth. It aches, in a delicious way, vastly different from previous experiences. He wonders how much of that is attributed to it being Alastor.

He feels impossibly full.

Alastor hisses as he’s finally seated fully inside. He pauses as he adjusts to the tight heat, nails digging into Angel’s hips. He’s trying to control himself, Angel realizes.

_Fuck that._

He wants Alastor to break. Just as he will.

He squeezes, bearing down on the cock buried deep inside him. Alastor lets out a drawn out moan, then glares at Angel. His eyes are charged, frenetic. Angel smirks.

“Fuck me, Al. Remind me who I belong to.”

For once, Alastor obeys. He fucks into him relentlessly, speeding up and slowing down at maddening intervals. Angel’s legs shake with each ruthless thrust. The warmth pools in his abdomen as Alastor adjusts the angle, punching out long moans from Angel’s lips as his prostate is ferociously assaulted. Angel’s neglected cock swings between his legs. He wraps a hand around himself, stroking once before Alastor bats his hand away and replaces it with his. Angel sloppily fucks into his fist, shoved forward by the momentum of Alastor’s punishing thrusts. He feels his pleasure peaking. It’s all too much.

“Al, I can’t…I need,” he pants. Alastor rewards him by digging his nails into his back. Angel arches his back, and releases a long moan as Alastor grabs his nape, forcing him to face the mirror.

He’s met with Alastor’s predatory gaze. He’s not smiling for once, and it looks so out of place, so wrong, but god help him, he adores it.

“Look at you,” Alastor snarls, voice dark with lust. Angel does. He’s on his hands and knees, a smattering of pink blossoming under the freckles gracing his cheeks, chest, stomach. He watches as his reflection pitches forward with every thrust, cock trapped in Alastor’s fist. Angel arches, his hindbrain overriding common sense. The pressure is steadily building. It’s impossible to ignore.

He’s completely feral, Angel thinks, canting his hips, meeting Alastor’s thrusts. There’s an unleashed fury inside him, barely restrained now. Alastor pistons into him, savagely fucking into his housemate, his teeth biting back the howl as Angel’s hole flutters around his dick.

Gone is his professional veneer; the false mask of sincerity.

All that’s left is the beast.

“Look at how pretty you look. My slutty little darling. Mine.”

Angel breaks. He topples over the edge. Angel comes violently, hips wildly bucking as he spills into the sheets, blacking out for a glorious moment as blinding pleasure overwhelms him. The large hand continues pumping until he moans at the sensitivity. He’s dimly aware of cursing in the background, but files the observation away, at least until his thighs stop convulsing.

“I’m going to breed you now, Anthony,” Alastor rasps out.

Angel whimpers. “ _Please_ , Al.” That’s all the concession he needs.

Alastor swears, pulling out quickly. He fumbles with the condom, and manages to unroll the sheath and whip it off the bed before gripping the base of his cock, lining up, and pushing back in. Angel groans at the loss but gasps and obediently lowers his hips at the second intrusion. He squeezes while Alastor shoves his hips forward, milking his cock as it pushes deep inside him.

It takes a couple more thrusts, and Alastor is spilling.

“Coming,” Alastor grits out. It’s the only warning before his hips stutter against Angel’s ass. He stills, driving his nails into Angel’s hips. His cock throbs, thickening as he empties himself inside Angel. He holds himself there, panting, staking his claim.

Angel feels filthy, used, and ruined.

It’s _sublime_.

After a moment, Alastor gingerly pulls out, wincing slightly. Angel is left oddly bereft. Although exhausted beyond all belief, he aches at the loss. Angel’s arms give out finally, and he collapses on the soft sheets. His abused hole twitches, and come seeps out onto the back of his thigh.

Alastor tuts from far away.

“Spread,” he orders, faintly out of breath and decidedly not finished with Angel.

“Open for me.” It’s a command, not a request. Angel shudders, and complies.

He keens as Alastor pushes two fingers into his used hole. Angel hears a satisfied exhale as he’s opened up again. The cold press of metal sends a jolt straight through him, and he turns and watches as Alastor inches the plug inside, withdrawing his fingers as it works its way in. It glides effortlessly, copious amounts of spend easing the way. Angel widens his legs in unsolicited response. A deep moan forces its way from his chest, slipping past the hoarse lining of his throat, and emerging from his lips as the plug is fully seated in his ass.

“Leave it in, dear heart,” Alastor murmurs.

“I’ll let you know when you’re allowed to remove it.”

Angel breathily sighs into the pillow. He shifts his hips for good measure, deliciously full again. His lids begin drooping as a blanket settles over his body.

Alastor dresses quickly, sparing a kiss to Angel’s shoulder as afterthought. He leaves without a word, and not a minute too soon, for Angel is greeted with the loud noise of the front door slamming.

From his room, he catches snippets of conversation, running water, and drunken laughter. He tries in vain to fight it, but sleep eventually overtakes him.

* * *

Alastor hums to himself while washing the dishes.

He cooked earlier, so technically it was only fair that Husk did the washing up, but he’ll let that slide. He was in a _fantastic_ mood, after all.

“Can’t believe ya forgot my shit,” Husk half-grumbles, struck jovial by drink. “I mean, ya never forget shit, man, ‘specially when I might go into DTs, dickhead.”

He pauses.

“My apologies, Husker. Must have slipped my mind with all the recent hullabaloo.”

He hears Husk sigh, before unloading the rough estimate of a shot into his mouth, directly from the bottle.

“Whatever you say, Al. Coulda swore ya messed up on purpose. Your mind just don’t slip like that,” he snorts, teasing.

“Oh Husker,” Alastor replies, tone lilting, more than a hint of laughter in it.

“What a silly, baseless accusation.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a lyric from arguably one of the sexiest songs of the decade: Rev 22:20, by Puscifer. Near and dear to my heart
> 
> 1\. Angel’s tattoo is a heart on his ass cheek that reads, “Property of Val.”
> 
> 2\. BAC: Blood alcohol concentration
> 
> 3\. DT: Delirium tremens. Severe alcohol withdrawal symptoms ranging from shaking to hallucinations.  
> (Husk always carries a breathalyzer with him.) I vehemently oppose drinking and driving, but I do know of a fair few alcoholics that try to, regardless.
> 
> 4\. Before having sex, it's normal to disclose your records. It's also normal not to, but then again, I think more benefits come with respectful disclosure. 
> 
> 5\. Headcanon: Human Alastor is unrepentant in his use of sex to get what he wants  
> Also: Is he or isn’t he? Feel free to speculate on Alastor’s supposed murderous tendencies, it’s purposely open ended here


End file.
